Encounters
by annaliesegrace
Summary: With each time they sleep together, there is a shift in their relationship. Clint/Natasha. Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Encounters

Rating: M, very M.

Summary: With each time they sleep together, there is a shift in their relationship. Clint/Natasha

AN: Well, this is the first movie I've ever felt compelled to write for, I'm more a TV kinda girl. But after seeing The Avengers five times on DVD with my seven-year-old, I realized there is just _so much potential _with these two. And the movie leaves so much said and so much unsaid all at the same time. So here you go, my take on these two (who Jeremy Renner and Scarlett Johansson play with great chemistry).

Reviews are love.

_The wound heals but it never does__  
__That's cause you're at war with love__  
__You're at war with love, yeah_

_These battle scars, don't look like they're fading__  
__Don't look like they're ever going away__  
__They ain't never gonna change__  
__These battle_

_Never let a wound ruin me__  
__But I feel like ruin's wooing me__  
__Arrow holes that never close from cupid on a shooting spree__  
__Feeling stupid cause I know it ain't no you and me__  
__But when you're trying to beat the odds up__  
__Been trying to keep your nods up and you know that you should know__  
__And let her go but the fear of the unknown__  
__Holding another lover strong sends you back into the zone__  
__With no Tom Hanks to bring you home__  
__A lover not a fighter on the frontline with a poem__  
__Trying to write yourself a rifle__  
__Maybe sharpen up a song__  
__To fight the tanks and drones of you being alone_

* * *

Chapter One - Adrenaline

Austria – 3 Years Before

The first time they have sex it's because of the adrenaline.

It's after the incident in Budapest. They should have died, three times over and yet somehow they finished the mission objective (just barely), gotten out of the country and across to Austria alive if not entirely in one piece. Clint probably had cracked ribs and Natasha was sporting a wound that desperately needed stitches on her temple caused by a bullet that was off by just centimeters. They had ditched the car they stole to get out of Budapest at the border and walked into Gussing where there was a small inn that often took in SHIELD operatives who needed to lay low.

And oh boy, did they need to lay low.

After calling into Coulson they had been instructed to go to the inn and stay put until he called them back. Which meant the heat from the Budapest mission was probably close to creating an international incident and it wasn't safe to come get them. The innkeeper could get them medical attention if it wasn't serious, otherwise they would have to check into a local hospital under fake names.

They chose neither, electing to raid the innkeeper's first aid supplies and take care of the problem(s) themselves. After they were quietly ushered to the secluded third floor – which contained one room with a large king sized bed and its own bathroom - Gregor had reappeared with a large case containing everything they would need to patch themselves up before he disappeared again.

After washing off the blood on her temple Natasha realized the wound wasn't as bad as she thought, just bloody as hell, and had Clint apply anti-bacterial ointment, butterfly bandages then tape a piece of gauze to keep the whole thing covered. With any luck there would only be a light scar.

Then she turned her attention to Clint, who had ever so painfully pulled off his vest and was struggling to get his tank off.

Without speaking she walked over to him and gripped the edge of the material, pulling it up and over his head. The act was intimate and Clint would be lying if he said the feel of her fingers brushing his ribs didn't illicit a reaction from his body. Hey, he was human and male and still on an adrenaline high.

"Hold your breath," she said in that demanding way of hers; so he complied and she gently poked at the half dollar sized bruise on the left side of his chest, above his ribs.

Instead of pulling back and crying out as she would have expected if the rib was broken or cracked he merely twitched. One look into his eyes and she knew he wasn't trying to be strong (they hadn't bothered doing that in front of each other in a very long time) and nodded, satisfied.

"Bruised, not cracked."

He let out the breath he was holding, nodded and without prompting she helped him get the tank back on. But this time, instead of quickly pulling it down as she normally would have, she lingered, letting her fingers run across the sweat and dirt covered skin they found.

His eyes snapped to hers in surprise, but those deep greens gave nothing away.

After pulling a cold pack out and setting it aside, Clint disappeared to return the kit to Gregor.

On the way back up the stairs, his phone rang and he quickly answered, it was Coulson. The conversation was short, sweet and to the point and as he re-entered their room, closing the door, he relayed the conversation to Natasha.

"Fake passports, cash and credit cards are being mailed, should be here the day after tomorrow. We're leaving like regular ol' citizens."

When there was no reaction from the other person, Clint looked up from the phone to find her staring at him.

Like…_staring._ Just before it started to get really weird she stood and walked over to him, fire and seduction in her eyes.

Oh, no.

Then he was pushed back against the door and her lips were on his and it stoked the adrenaline in him again and despite the fact he knew this was a very bad idea, Clint couldn't seem to bring himself to stop her. Because behind the fire and seduction he had seen a woman who'd come centimeters from certain death and needed some kind of reassurance that she was still, indeed, alive. Hell, he needed the same reassurance.

So instead he kissed her back roughly, pressing his tongue into her mouth and she responded by doing the same. Then her hands made quick (though careful) work of his tank top again and her long fingers worked their way slowly back down his now-bare chest, over his abdomen and easily made work of his belt and Clint knew there was no going back.

But this would just be sex, nothing more, nothing less. A way to expend the last of the adrenaline coursing through their systems.

At least he hoped so.

Until she pulled away, fingers gripping his belt loops, and he couldn't help himself, he reached out and ever so gently touched the gauze on her forehead. A reminder to both of them how close they had come this time. Sure, there had been plenty of knife wounds, gun shots and burns between them for a lifetime, but a head shot? That would be the end.

Instead of holed up in an inn in Austria with her warm body pressed against his, Clint could be alone, her body left where it laid in Hungary.

And that's when he knew that he needed her, desperately, even if just for tonight. And since Clint Barton was good at pushing down feelings and emotions it was easy to delude himself into thinking that this was a one off deal, nothing. Just sex. But he knew in the back of his head that it was really so much more.

Her lips returned to his, gentler this time, moving slowly as if trying to memorize every detail about kissing him while her hands did the same to his body, sliding up and down his torso then across his arms, tracing the muscles of his biceps before linking her hands with his and pulling him backwards, toward the bed.

As they get closer he had a moment of clarity (or maybe stupidity) and he stopped, looking at her. "Natasha, are you-"

Before he could finish she placed one finger against his lips and stared into his eyes, maybe soul even, and he got the message.

Then he was back on her, hungry lips mapping her neck, shoulders, anything he could touch. Suddenly her shirt was off along with her bra and Clint restrained the moan that bubbled up in his throat.

Damn, she was more beautiful then he remembered. Then again, the last time he saw her topless, he was patching up a stab wound.

So he took advantage and explored more skin with lips and hands and then he was falling backward onto the bed, Natasha straddling him.

It isn't long before the rest of their clothes are on the floor and he's buried in her and she's moving up and down and rotating her hips and oh, if he wasn't a patient, patient, man this would have already been over. But he was and he sucked in a deep breath when her fingers dug into the flesh of his chest.

The moans and sighs coming from her were nearly silent, but he heard them anyway and his fingers gripped her hips tightly (probably too tightly, but she didn't complain) as she moved.

The near silent sounds rose in volume and started to buck against her, a hand sliding up her thigh. She anticipated his destination and pulled her hands away from his chest, instead leaning back and placing them on his thighs, opening herself up to him.

As she continued to ride him - her desperation starting to show - his hand found the juncture between her thighs and his fingers slowly rubbed against her, teasing, taunting.

A few swear words –in Russian – came forth as she somehow simultaneously fucked him while rubbing herself against his hand.

He could feel her tightening around him and the hand that was firmly on her clit sped its movements and pressed harder, sending her spiraling over the edge - calling out something that sounded like his name but was at least two syllables longer than it should have been.

He came right after her, his hands back on her hips as he did, panting and grunting.

Then she did something completely unexpected. Instead of getting up to clean herself, she fell forward onto him, lying so they are chest to chest, their hearts beating erratically. Her face was buried in his neck; he could feel her short breaths on his skin, hair tickling his nose. But it only lasted fifteen seconds or so before she pulled up and wordlessly disengaged from him, disappearing into the bathroom.

He watched her go with a tight feeling in his chest that Clint didn't want to explore.

Now that the energy was spent and the haze of desire had lifted, Clint realized what a _very bad_ idea this had been and decided it absolutely could not happen again. It's too dangerous to get involved with your partner, especially when your partner is also your friend and closest confidant.

Could not. Happen. Again.

Except it does.

* * *

tbc…

Don't forget to review on the way out!


	2. Possession

AN: THANK YOU to all that read and favorited the first chapter and extra special thanks to those who took the time to review. They are appreciated and read and loved. If you hadn't gathered the time frame of "Before" on each chapter is before the events of Avengers.

That said, I went back and re-read chapter one and oh, dear. The tenses were all over the place, which was completely unacceptable; so I've replaced it with a new, corrected chapter that isn't all split-personality. I apologize and hope it doesn't dissuade you; usually I'm a better writer than that.

_I wish I never looked, I wish I never touched__  
__I wish that I could stop loving you so much__  
__Cause I'm the only one that's trying to keep us together__  
_

_When all of the signs say that I should forget her__  
__I wish you weren't the best, the best I ever had__  
__I wish that the good outweighed the bad__  
__Cause it'll never be over, until you tell me it's over_

_These battle scars, don't look like they're fading__  
__Don't look like they're ever going away__  
__They ain't never gonna change__  
__These battle__(And just leave then)__  
__You shouldn't have but you said it__  
__(And I hope you never come back)_

_It shouldn't have happened but you let it__  
__Now you're down on the ground screaming medic__  
__The only thing that comes is the post-traumatic stresses__  
__Shields, body armors and vests__  
__Don't properly work, that's why you're in a locker full of hurt__  
__The enemy within and all the fires from your friends__  
__The best medicine is to probably just let her win_

* * *

Chapter 2 - Possession

Berlin – 2 years before

The second time they have sex it's because of possession.

Clint had been forced to watch her seduce a damn mark. Again. This time at a fancy gallery opening where said mark was the artist. From the outside the guy seemed innocent enough, starving artist and all that.

Except while he was an artist he was certainly NOT starving. Not from the coin he was pulling in running guns and other assorted military-style weapons across Europe. The artist crap was just a method to move the weapons; someone bought a painting and got an extra something in their shipment.

At first SHIELD could have cared less, until Evengi Markham had started selling to their enemies. Then they took interest and sent their best team out to eliminate him. By all accounts Markham worked alone (well, mostly, he always had rather large bodyguards following him around) so one shot and they would be done.

SHIELD wanted this one done quietly, so poison was the method of death on tap for the evening. Natasha was supposed to slip the substance into his drink and simply walk away.

Except the idiot hadn't had a drink in his hand all night. If he wasn't talking to someone he was on the phone with someone else.

Or he was leering at Natasha in a way that sent the hackles up on the back of Clint's neck. She had played hard to get but was finally standing at Markham's side, smiling, flirting, and pulling out her long dormant Russian accent.

And he…well, Barton was stuck on the roof of the building across the street, rifle set up next to him as a last resort. He watched stock still as Markham put his hands all over his partner.

All over her.

At first it was fairly innocuous, a hand at her back to guide her around the gallery, a brush of the hands, but slowly he got a little too familiar. Not that Clint blamed him. Natasha was dressed to kill that night in a form fitting, knee length emerald green dress. It was flowy and clingy all at the same time and with the matching stiletto heels she was quite a sight to be seen. Clint had had to hide his reaction when she'd stepped out of the hotel bathroom earlier that evening by suddenly finding his rifle absolutely riveting.

Right now Markham was grabbing her ass, kneading it firmly with one hand. Any other occasion and she would have broken that arm clean in half, but now she was smiling seductively at him.

It took all Clint's willpower not to talk to her through the comm, they had a standing understanding that unless death was imminent or something critical needed to be relayed (and what constituted critical had been thoroughly hashed out after Clint wouldn't shut the hell up a couple times).

So he remained silent while the slimy bastard got a nice ass grab in before kissing her neck gently.

And he stayed silent when Markham guided her to a quiet, dark corner and pulled her body flush against his, kissing her deeply.

But when the jackass went for her breast and got a generous, lengthy handful Clint hissed out an irritated "What the fuck".

If she heard him, Natasha made no outward sign of it, instead leaning into the touch and moaning appropriately. Though Clint could tell it was completely and totally fake.

Fire was rising in him and he couldn't explain it. Well, maybe he could but Clint chose not to dwell on the reasoning behind his sudden possessive behavior. This was not the first and certainly not the last time she would seduce a mark, so his feelings were borderline irrational. Except the difference between this time and the dozens of other times she'd done it was their own encounter in Budapest.

_This was exactly what they didn't need_, he thought and instantly cleared his head, focusing back on her and the mission and somehow tuning out what was going on between his partner and the mark.

"Have a glass of champagne with me?" she whispered seductively and licked her lips. Markham nodded stupidly and she walked off with an extra swing in her hips, easily finding a waitress with a tray full of glasses.

Clint watched as she took two and carefully dropped a pill into one, swirling the drink so it dissolved in a matter of seconds. Then she was back with him in the corner, and they toasted and each took a long drink.

Then another and quickly the glasses were drained. It would be maybe five minutes before the supposed artist would suddenly drop dead of an apparent heart attack.

With a promising kiss Natasha excused herself to the bathroom, but took a turn on her way and instead disappeared out the back door while Clint watched Markham drop to the floor twitching, the other guests screaming in horror.

In no time he had his rifle packed up and was moving across the closely spaced rooftops and away from the gallery.

It took him all of ten minutes before hitting their small hotel and he shimmied down the back wall near the empty truck delivery entrance. Then walked around the building, slinging the bag that held the gun onto his back and simply walked in the front entrance.

He beat her to the room as expected and went about his post-mission briefing with Coulson. They would be on the first flight out in the morning and the handler was pleased they had gotten through the mission quickly and without incident. Barton heard the sarcastic tone in Coulson's voice; it actually was unusual for Strike Team Delta to manage a mission without complications. They somehow seemed to invite disaster.

Ending the conversation Clint realized it was taking Natasha longer than it should have to get back to the room. At this point he wasn't overly worried, but it was giving him entirely too much time to replay the night's events in his head while he unlaced and removed his boots.

The way Markham had touched her, had whispered in her ear, and had kissed her.

Sudden possessiveness reared up in him, moreso than it should have. Despite one night, he had no claim on her, and yet that caveman part of his brain insisted that yes, yes he did. They had spent just over three years as partners, they didn't "date" other people, had few friends outside each other and Phil and shared things with each other that they wouldn't with anyone else.

So yeah, he did have a claim.

And when the door opened and she walked in, Clint felt compelled to mark his territory.

As she finished locking the door he pushed her against it (what was it with them and doors?), his lips attacking hers, tongue forcing its way into her mouth.

Clint was well aware that if she didn't want to do this, Natasha could easily stop him, but she didn't. Instead she kissed him back, her tongue dueling with his.

Then his hands were pulling ruthlessly at the front of her very expensive dress, exposing her lace clad breasts.

Her nails scraped his neck, most likely leaving marks and that just fueled his passion even more and he yanked, ripping the dress clear down the front, exposing her to the top of her matching lace underwear.

One hand worked its way under the dress, up her thigh before rotating to grab her ass; and his other arm snaked around her back, lifting her into the air so she could wrap her legs around him.

The entire time his lips never left her skin, exploring her shoulders, collarbone, the tops of those breasts. Anywhere he could find.

At some point he pulled her away from the door and carried her to the bed, tossing her rather carelessly onto it.

That possessive feeling reared up again at the visual of her lying there, dress ripped, chest heaving, lips swollen, desire rampant in her green eyes. He'd done that to her. He'd brought the Black Widow to this state. Him.

Faster than even he thought possible, Clint shed his clothes and pushed the dress up to her waist. Natasha had been silent and for a moment that gave him pause, until she wrapped one long leg around his waist and pulled him closer to the edge of the bed.

He leaned over her and kissed hard again, biting not so gently at her lower lip. She let out a low moan of approval and he placed his hand between them, easily tearing the barely there lace underwear off her body.

Then he entered her, fast and hard and oh, God, she was already wet and ready for him.

Standing, he gripped her thighs hard and set a pace that was just shy of brutal, she would certainly feel it the next day.

She moaned and started panting harshly, her hips moving in time with his, eyes flitting closed with pleasure, lips forming an "o".

When her fingernails dug into the skin of his outer thighs he knew she was close so he eased the pace just barely and lifted her ass off the bed, providing a better angle. It wasn't long before she was letting out a keening moan and arching herself off the bed, falling apart under him.

As he came, Clint bent over and bit her shoulder hard, hard enough to certainly leave a distinct bruise for the next couple days. She let out a small cry of not pain but surprise.

Then he collapsed on the bed next to her, panting as well.

Again she was the first one to get up, but instead of disappearing into the bathroom right away she propped herself up on one arm and looked down at him, slightly amused.

"Next time, Barton? No marks."

"Who said there's gonna be a next time?" he asked as she disappeared into the small bathroom. At his words she stuck her head back out and stared at him pointedly.

Yeah, of course there would be a next time. It was too good between them for there not to be.

As long as they just kept it about sex and nothing more.

* * *

Tbc….

Anyone guess the song lyrics at the beginning yet? Anyone?


	3. Comfort

AN: Again, so, so many thanks for the reviews for last chapter, please keep it up, they are appreciated and motivating. This chapter is a bit short, but the last one, which is the next one, will be much longer to make up for it.

And yes, the song is "Battle Scars" by Lupe Fiasco.

* * *

I wish I couldn't feel, I wish I couldn't love  
I wish that I could stop cause it hurts so much  
And I'm the only one that's trying to keep us together  
When all of the signs say that I should forget her  
I wish you weren't the best, the best I ever had  
I wish that the good outweighed the bad  
Cause it'll never be over, until you tell me it's over

These battle scars, don't look like they're fading  
Don't look like they're ever going away  
They ain't never gonna change  
These battle

* * *

Helicarrier, off the coast of Brazil – 14 months before

The third time they have sex is because they both need comfort.

They had returned to the helicarrier the night before, after a grueling mission that had both of them a little off-center.

SHIELD had gotten wind of a human smuggling operation based in Rio and had quickly dispatched its best team to take care of it. Unfortunately when they got there it was far, far worse than anyone had realized. They were smuggling women and girls, some as slaves, some as mules, the rest for things Clint didn't care to think about unless he wanted to lose his mind.

When they'd finally gotten a look in the warehouse, both agents had been shocked to find the youngest girls looked to be 11, maybe 12. Natasha had nearly lost it right there, it was far too similar to her own time with the Red Room. Clint had seen the rage in her eyes and had to settle her down before she did something supremely stupid and went off halfcocked and got herself killed.

In the end they had killed the men in charge, but not before said men had set the warehouse ablaze, willing to lose their "commodity" to spare their own pathetic lives. It hadn't worked. They were dead.

But so were half the girls.

They had done their best, called Coulson who had a team in place to take the women to safety after Clint and Natasha had killed the leaders.

It was the explosives hidden in the drywall around the warehouse they hadn't accounted for.

In the end they had been commended by Coulson and Fury for taking the ring down and saving fifty-five lives, but it didn't seem like enough. His partner had been completely silent unless spoken to the entire debriefing. Not that he was much better; Clint was having a hard time not hearing the screams of those that didn't make it. Those they couldn't save.

Lying in his bunk, one arm under his head, the other resting on his chest, he tried to sleep but just couldn't, the images of those girls, screaming for help kept playing in his head. Just as he was debating getting up and going to the gym, the code was punched into his lock and she slipped in the room, closing and locking the door behind her.

The room was completely dark except the little bit of moonlight that got through the shade on his very small window (he was lucky enough as a senior agent and part of a named team to have an outside room), but he could see the distress on her face.

Without speaking she padded over to the bed and slipped under the covers beside him, curling on her side into his body, one hand finding the one on his chest and linking their fingers. Natasha was not a touchy-feely person, so while the action surprised him, Clint said nothing about it.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked into the dark and felt her nod. "We did all we could, Nat."

"I know," she croaked out and he cringed, she had been crying. And Natasha Romanoff didn't cry. At least not in front of him.

Sighing he pulled the arm out from under his head and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her even closer to him, forcing her head into the crook of his neck. They laid that way in silence for a while, long enough that he thought she had fallen asleep.

Until her warm mouth planted an open kiss on his neck and the hand that had been entwined with his slipped away and moved under his shirt, fingers gliding across the skin of his abdomen. Seemingly aimlessly she moved back and forth across his abs before sliding up toward his chest, where her fingers continued to explore him slowly.

It confused him so Clint remained stock still, unsure exactly where her head was at and what she was aiming for, he was content to let her lead.

After a while her hand pulled out from under his shirt and moved up the material on the outside before coming to a rest on his face – he was still staring at the ceiling – fingers dancing across his jawline and cheek. It was almost like she was trying to memorize him by touch. It was oddly intimate.

Then she applied light pressure and turned his head toward her and she stared at him a long moment before tentatively kissing him on the mouth.

As she pulled away her fingers moved up into his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp.

Clint shifted onto his side so he could face her, reaching out and touching her face, running the tips of his fingers across her smooth skin, first her jaw, then cheek, over her temple before pushing some of her long hair back out of her eyes. Their two previous encounters had been sex for sex's sake, a release of tension, quick and to the point. This was…intimate, feelings, emotions. This was opening doors better left firmly closed. This was what he was afraid of.

"Nat…"

She shook her head to silence him and one hand gripped his t-shirt, speaking lowly. "I can still hear them…screaming."

"I know," he whispered back. "Me too."

Reaching up she kissed him again, this time more passionately and spoke against his lips. "Make it stop, Clint. Please…make it stop."

Against his better judgment he kissed her back, pulling her body flush against his. Because he needed to stop hearing the screaming too.

The hand resting on her lower back slipped under her tank top and his fingers starting tracing up and down her spine, pulling a low moan from her.

Then he slowly, ever so slowly, pulled the tank over her head, tossing it into the corner of the room, his fingers tracing back down her still outstretched arms.

His lips attacked her neck and shoulders, kissing and nipping as he went while her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Clint," she moaned as he worked his way across her collarbone and her fingers gripped his neck, nails digging into the skin. When he dipped his tongue into the hollow at her throat she threw her head back and he gripped onto the hair that brushed his fingers, exposing her neck to him.

He kissed up the exposed column before pressing his lips to hers again, pushing open her mouth with his tongue. The second his tongue met hers the pace quickened, her hands scrabbling at the hem of his t-shirt and as she gripped it Clint pulled away from her, allowing Natasha to pull the material off and toss it in the same general direction hers had gone.

Looking at him a moment she dipped her head down and kissed his chest, her fingers moving over the fine hair she found there.

"Nat…" he whispered again and she looked up at him, fire dancing in her eyes. But behind that was a woman who was slowly breaking at the seams; this mission had done that to her.

He lowered his head and kissed her again before she slipped down his body, hooking her thumbs into the basketball shorts and underwear he wore, pulling both down and slipping them off his body.

As she came back up Natasha let her fingers linger over the strong muscles of his legs before firmly gripping his already hard cock in her hand.

Clint let out a very inelegant grunt as she slowly pumped him, her lips finding his neck and shoulders.

She'd never touched him like this before.

Suddenly she stopped and Clint nearly let out a whine of disappointment until he realized she was pulling off her own cotton shorts and underwear.

Then he wrapped an arm around her waist and slid her onto her back, hovering over her a moment before pressing himself into her.

His name fell from her lips as he started a slow, easy pace.

Clint expected her to buck against him, attempt to speed his motions, but she didn't, instead seemingly content to let him take his time with her.

Pushing his luck, Clint bent down and lapped at one pert nipple, pleased when she arched into him and moaned. He repeated with the action with the other one, this time sucking as well, which practically had her mewling under him.

Her hands found their way to his shoulder blades, pulling him closer and kissing him deeply as she did.

With every kiss, every slow, intimate thrust, Clint could feel something shifting between them.

And it was dangerous, God was it dangerous, but he couldn't bring himself to stop either.

So he buried his face in her neck, breathed her in deeply and pushed harder, faster, bringing her to the edge and then careening over; Clint following quickly after. As he came down, Clint slid off her body, lying on his side next to her.

Without a word she curled into him again, face pressed into his chest, one arm slung around his waist. His arms wrapped around her, hands rubbing slowly up and down her naked back.

"Sleep, Nat." He practically commanded and felt her body relax against him, her breathing slowing.

This was something else they never did - fall asleep wrapped naked in each other.

It was too intimate; previously they'd redressed and slept on their own sides of the bed.

This was not good.

This was the very definition of compromised.

* * *

tbc…


	4. Love

So, so, so many favorites for this one and thank you! But you know, reviews really do feed the muse, so please leave one on the way out…especially on this, the last chapter of Encounters, they are always, always appreciated and extra thanks to those who did leave one. I am percolating a new Clint/Natasha story.

* * *

Cause you've set me on fire  
I've never felt so alive, yeah

Hoping wounds heal, but it never does  
That's because you're at war with love

And I'm at the point of breaking  
And it's impossible to shake it

See, you hoped the wound heals, but it never does  
That's cause you're at war with love  
Hope it heals, but it never does  
That's cause you're at war with love!

* * *

Chapter 4 - Love

* * *

Stark Towers – 6 hours after

The next time they sleep together they had been separated for nearly a year; her dealing with Tony Stark in California then the trip to Russia, him in New Mexico. When they finally found each other again the first thing he'd did was try to kill her. Granted he hadn't been of his own right mind, but still, not a great way to greet your partner.

_Barton's been compromised._

The words replayed in her head even as the group stumbled their way back to Tony Stark's home after eating their meal of shwarma. After delivering Loki to the local SHIELD base she and Barton had been instructed to remain together with the other Avengers until Fury arrived to debrief them. Which would be the day after next.

They couldn't stay on the base, it was overrun with media, so Stark had offered his tower, where they could hide on the top floors for a while, where reporters and the general public couldn't get so much as a glance at the world's newest heroes.

Plus Fury had decided – in a rare moment of compassion – that they needed time to decompress and sleep.

Tony had gladly offered up his building, explaining he had a few guest rooms usually reserved for upper level management in Stark Industries when they visited the area. And they had power, which was a bonus.

Shuffling into the one remaining functional elevator, Tony spoke sharply to the AI. "JARVIS, how many guest rooms are currently available?"

"Four, sir." The voice immediately called back and Tony cringed. One short.

Slowly the billionaire turned to the group, knowing what seemed to make the most sense, but unwilling to piss off either assassin.

Natasha spared a glance at Clint; he was dead on his feet - only being kept upright by the corner of the elevator he was propped against. If she hadn't slept in 36 hours, it had to have been far longer for him. Without looking back at Stark she snapped out, "We'll share."

Instead of a comment about their sleeping arrangements as she'd expected, Tony merely nodded at the two agents.

As they arrived on one of the higher floors Tony quickly pointed them to bedrooms, sending her and Clint to the farthest one, whispering to her as they went by "it has the best view". Natasha rolled her eyes even though part of her did appreciate the gesture.

Opening the door, Natasha sucked in a deep breath; the room was painted a slate blue, with light grey linens. But the best part…the wall across from the bed was nothing but floor to ceiling windows, the city on full display as the sun started to slip past the horizon.

Clint grunted next to her and slowly worked his way toward the bed to her right. Snapping out of the trance, she followed him, bending down to start untying his shoes.

"You don't have-"

"Just…let me help you Clint."

He must have been tired, because all Clint did was nod and lean back while she pulled off his boots and socks, pushing them to the side on the floor. Then she stood between his legs and carefully pulled off the vest he wore, tossing it by his shoes.

As she stepped back, he stood unsteadily and pushed down his pants, leaving him in just boxer-briefs. Natasha pulled back the ridiculously expensive sheets and guided Clint in, but when his back hit the mattress he hissed in pain.

"Roll over," she whispered and he complied. And when his bare back was exposed to her she sucked in a deep, pained breath. "Oh, Clint."

From shoulder to lower back diagonally, was an enormous bruise with small cuts interspersed through the deep purples, reds and blues. Tilting her head she realized what the shape was…his quiver.

One hand reached out and gently traced the mark, noting his skin was warmer where the bruise was.

"JARVIS," she spoke lowly and the AI returned in an equally quiet tone.

"Yes, agent."

"I need pain medication."

"Nat…" Clint started but she cut him off with a squeeze on his upper arm.

"There is a small kitchen on this floor, with a first aid kit, ma'am."

"Thank you," she said and whispered to Clint before slipping out of the room, "Right back."

Five minutes later she returned, this time locking the door behind her. For a brief moment she wondered if maybe they shouldn't have at least showered before going to bed but then recognized they were both so damn tired, standing long enough to shower was probably out of the question.

Approaching the bed, Nat thought Clint had fallen asleep until he rolled over carefully, eyes open and staring at her.

The sun was basically down, but lights from the city illuminated the room enough that she could see the events of the last couple days etched into the solemn expression on his face. He was clearly still tortured by what he had done while under Loki's control but Natasha didn't think now was the time to try and talk to him about it. It was all still so raw…for them both.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she coaxed him into taking three Motrin and drinking most of the bottle of water.

Clint reached out and pushed some hair out of her face. "You ok?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm ok."

Her eyes locked with his and she begged him to read between the lines, to understand what she couldn't say. _I'm ok since you're back where you belong…with me._

Then he slid backwards on the bed and she stripped down to her bra, panties and a lightweight tank top, slipping in next to him so they were facing each other. Nat reached out and ran her fingertips along his hairline, noting the debris still in his short hair.

Maybe that shower wasn't such a bad idea.

But now that she was warm and comfortable in bed (and with him) there was no hope of getting back up until she slept a solid twelve hours.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered.

"Don't be," she replied and cupped his cheek. "Please don't do this Clint. Not right now. Now we sleep, ok?" She felt him nod and Natasha placed a kiss on his forehead.

One of his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer; holding onto her like a drowning man would grip onto a piece of debris. She was keeping him afloat, keeping him sane.

Her fingers played gently with the hairs at the nape of his neck and it wasn't long before she felt his entire body relax as he drifted into sleep.

Kissing his temple, she shifted into a more comfortable position in his arms and it wasn't long before she followed him.

When Natasha woke next she was disoriented; the strange bed was nothing new to her, nor was her bedmate (who had untangled himself from her at some point during the night). But her brain was still struggling to wake and for the life of her, Natasha couldn't determine the time, for some reason the room was practically pitch black. Then she remembered where she was.

"JARVIS?" she practically whispered after looking around uselessly for a clock – the one thing the damn room didn't have - not wanting to wake Clint, who was still sound asleep beside her. The AI responded in an equally low tone. "Yes, agent?"

"What time is it?"

"Eleven thirty three am."

Holy shit, it had been nearly eleven at night when they'd finally fallen asleep. Stretching her body, Natasha was unsurprised when nearly every muscle and joint made a popping noise. She ached. Everywhere.

Slowly getting up, Natasha realized why it was so dark despite it being nearly noon; the room seemed to have some kind of tinting on the windows that JARVIS had probably "activated" while they slept.

From the corner of her eye she saw a slip of paper on the floor. Picking up the note, all it said was:

_Open the door._

Cautiously she did, surprised to find a black bag sitting on the floor of the hallway. Looking around Natasha saw no one and grabbed the bag, pulling it into the room and placing it on the small desk by the door.

Despite part of her assassin brain telling her not to, she slowly opened it to find fresh clothes in both her and Clint's sizes. There was a note written in precise, familiar, handwriting sitting on the top.

_Hope you don't mind, thought you both might like something clean to wear. - Pepper_

Of course, the woman thought of everything – their belongings were still on the heli-carrier. She chose not to dwell on _how _she had placed the bag outside the door and slipped the note in the room without her or Clint waking, they were usually both far more aware than that, even in sleep. It was a testament to how exhausted they really were and proof that Fury's decision to lock them up in a tower was probably wise.

Pulling out cotton yoga pants and long sleeved green shirt along with fresh undergarments, Natasha walked into the bathroom. And stopped.

Was there nothing that Tony Stark didn't overdo?

The room was enormous, far bigger than any of her assigned quarters at SHIELD. Double sink, deep soaking tub, and two person shower with enough heads for three people, including two rain heads.

Tempted to take a long soak, she realized that probably she'd just fall back asleep in the tub and after investigating the shower decided the body sprays would do the job in relaxing her muscles.

Easily she found towels in a small cabinet and set that and the fresh clothes on the counter by the sink.

Waiting for the water to warm up, she stripped off her underwear and tank, staring down at her body. She was a mess of bruises and shallow cuts and abrasions. And her ankle still hurt. The first Avengers mission had gone well, but had taken a toll on her physically and emotionally and Natasha wondered if it was worth it. She sighed. Of course it was. Not only was New York (and the world for that matter) safe but she felt as though the red in her ledger had finally been wiped clean. In some small way it felt like a new beginning.

Finally she stepped into the shower and let out a low moan of approval when the warm water from the jets hit her, and for just a second she silently thanked Tony for being so over-the-top.

She stood there under the streams for an unknown amount of time, just watching the dirty water circle down the drain. Again it felt like her old, red-tinged life was going with it, leaving a new woman in its place.

As she was trying to rinse some of the crap out of her hair, the feeling that she was being watched settled over her.

Cracking one eye open slowly, she saw Clint standing in the middle of the bathroom, just staring at her. His expression was impassive.

"Get in here already," she all but yelled out to him, pleased when he followed direction and stripped off his boxers. As he stepped into the shower she turned on the body jets that she hadn't been using, pointing where he should stand to get the best angle and commented, "Stark's actually good for something for once."

Clint grunted his assent and closed his eyes as the water soothed his abused muscles. Stretching both arms out, he was just able to touch each side of the shower stall, somewhat holding himself up.

Natasha watched as the water trailed down his body, as his muscles clenched and released.

"Clint…" her tone dripped concern.

"I'm ok, really. I'm…ok." Even he didn't sound all that convinced but she accepted it for now.

She reached out and touched a bruise that had formed on his upper chest, the memory of kicking him there flashed through her head. Then she let her hand trail down to another similar bruise on his abdomen, another one administered by herself.

In response, his hand reached out, tracing the mark his bow had caused across her upper chest when he'd held her down with it.

"Turn around," he commanded and she looked at him confused, but complied. There was some rustling behind her then Clint was slowly massaging shampoo into her hair.

She tilted her head back so he could reach every spot and reveled in the feeling of someone else washing her hair. It was wonderful, how his fingers firmly rubbed her scalp before pulling the shampoo gently back into her hair, taking the time to make sure he covered every strand while still being careful of the cut near her hairline.

"Rinse," he said quietly and again she complied, moving forward so the rain showerhead was directly above her. After rinsing he gently pulled her back and repeated the shampoo, less thoroughly this time and again she rinsed.

He pulled her back a second time and applied a generous amount of conditioner to her hair. A small smile crept across her face and she quipped, "Should I be concerned about your knowledge of women's hair products?"

"Hilarious, Romanoff," he deadpanned back to her and the smile grew wider, typical Clint response.

Then she rinsed her hair again and finally she was starting to feel a little more human.

"Your turn," she said as she turned to face him and he assented by handing her the men's shampoo that had thoughtfully been provided by Stark.

Washing his hair was a shorter task, but made far, far more intimate by the fact they were facing each other, and she had to reach just a little to get all of it. It brought them close together and Natasha could feel a flush of desire race through her, she was certain her skin was probably tinted pink from it.

As she finished, he grabbed one of her wrists and pulled it to his mouth, kissing the delicate skin on the inside.

Then he stepped back, rinsed his hair and grabbed the washcloth she had brought in and the body wash, placing a generous amount in the cloth.

"Turn," he directed, his tone deep and husky. She knew that tone, it sent a wave of pleasure through her body.

She did and instantly felt the washcloth on her back; he washed slowly, using enough pressure to be relaxing without causing her pain. Her head dropped forward when he worked his way up to her shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscles there.

Then his hands slipped to her abdomen, washing in slow, gentle circles that worked their way closer and closer to her center.

"Clint…" she practically whined.

"Yes?" he asked in that voice of his and Natasha laid her head on his shoulder. He leaned in and kissed the top of her shoulder as his hand with the washcloth moved over her hip, then thigh before sliding over her abdomen again where he switched hands and repeated the pattern on the other side of her body.

"I need you," she said and turned in his arms, pulling him in for a sweet, loving kiss.

"Anything for you," he responded against her lips and pushed her against the one somewhat dry shower wall.

The kisses quickly escalated to passionate and wanting and she hopped, wrapping her long legs around his waist while his hands landed on her bare behind, holding her up.

He kissed down her neck, his tongue finding the dip at her throat and she pushed her head back against the tile. As he guided her onto him, Clint kissed her hard, maybe harder than he needed to, but dammit, he needed to make sure she knew it him in here. That it was all him, nothing of the monster that had inhabited him for nearly three days remained.

"It's ok, Clint," she whispered into his ear. She always was able to see right through him, sometimes (most of the time) it was infuriating, but in that moment it was comforting. Her fingers worked their way through his hair, then down his neck gently. "It's ok…"

Then she started moving against him, encouraging him. Clint gripped her ass and moved faster, harder.

She moved with him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, keeping their balance.

His lips returned to hers, teeth nipping at her lower one, then he buried his face in her neck and mumbled, "Nat…God, Nat." She knew he wasn't calling out her name in pleasure but in some kind of strange apology.

She remained silent, he needed to get it out.

Suddenly his movements sped up and she gripped onto his shoulders, riding the wave that quickly took over her body, sending her careening over the edge of pleasure with a small cry. He came a few thrusts later and instantly released her legs so she could stand, but kept her pinned against the wall, his arms wrapped possessively around her waist; face still buried in her neck.

Natasha slowly stroked his neck and shoulders, knowing he needed a few minutes to gather himself.

When he pulled away she smiled gently and ran her fingertips along his jawline, then down his strong, corded neck, stopping at his shoulder.

A strange expression crossed his face then reached out and grabbed her hand, twining their fingers together. "Nat, I lo-"

She didn't let him get it out, covering his mouth with a swift, meaningful kiss before resting her forehead on his. This was a new Natasha Romanoff, one who was willing to acknowledge the feelings between them, even if the actual words were still hard for her to hear. And say. So instead she came as close to it as she could.

"I know," she said. "Me too."

* * *

END


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